


our mother has been absent ever since we founded rome

by therestisdetail



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:52:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestisdetail/pseuds/therestisdetail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie’s spitting mad because Meyer is such an asshole, Meyer is a little hypocrite, Meyer is always riding him about this, Meyer is <i>not answering his phone</i>. (Meyer is all of eighteen years old and knows he’s going to die on his knees in this parking lot.)</p><p> <br/>(various au!snippets of team ny)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we tried to dig a decent grave, but this is no way to behave [modern crime au]

It’s not for that long, even. Not really. Because maybe Meyer knows he’s going to die in this parking lot but Nucky Thompson hasn’t been eighteen for a long time, and what _he_ knows is that sometimes the best kind of example is the one that’s not real in the end, the one that leaves you knowing that even then the fear _was_.

(It's blurry and cut short but there are pieces that stand out well enough, Lucien D'Alessio's blood, the face of the boy on his knees. Jimmy sends the video; he keeps Meyer’s phone.)

So it’s not for that long that Charlie doesn’t know how to make his lungs work but is already on his feet and stumbling for the door, and it’s not for that long that AR sits very, very still in a way that makes Carolyn put her ipad down and walk over to the couch, hand hovering over his shoulder.

(“Talk to Rothstein about what you saw here.”)

It’s not for that long but maybe more than it could’ve been, because while Meyer doesn’t look at anything but neon reflections on wet asphalt straight ahead until he’s reached the corner his legs are steady and he walks, doesn’t run.

(Charlie gets a split lip dragging Benny to the car and the kid is snarling _what the fuck_ when the engine starts because Jimmy Darmody never had his number. The fire isn’t there, though, like he’s seen something in Charlie’s face that’s spooked him.)

It’s not that long because at fuck-this-o’clock in the morning in jersey the 7-eleven has lights on, so god bless america. Meyer feels like he doesn’t weigh anything and can’t understand how the girl at the counter doesn’t know, doesn’t just look at him and _just know_. But instead she chews gum and blinks and he buys something dirt cheap and prepaid that’s too narrow in his hand.

(“Can you pick me up, Charlie?” is the first thing he says and then he wants to apologise, because he thinks maybe that’s not in the right order, but he’s too busy trying to keep up with the reply when every fifth word is in italian and overlaid with distant swearing. “Is that Benny?”)

Twenty minutes, maybe. Twenty five. Not really very long, and he tells them so as they drive back, more than once, with Charlie’s fingers crushing his wrist and Benny restless, jumping out of his skin in the back seat.

It’s important to keep it in perspective.


	2. I realised quickly when I knew I should [florist and tattoo parlour au]

  
"You're shit at that," Benny says without preamble. He's not even through the door yet. "You can't fucking roll for shit, give it to Meyer."  
  
He's not wrong. It's certainly something; the way Charlie never quite manages to hit the spot anywhere in between falling apart and so tight you'd bust a lung trying, but Meyer doesn't particularly care. He's content to wait and see. It'd hardly be polite, otherwise. It is Charlie's stuff.  
  
"Go fuck yourself," Charlie says without heat, biting his lip and already glancing sideways at Meyer. "I'm not." He's leaning across Meyer's desk but keeps curled around the corner of it, as if worried about getting too close to any of the sketches. Benny has no such compunction, and throws his jacket right on top of a pile of them, kicking his boots off haphazardly across the floor and flinging himself down in one of the clients' chairs. He's already intent on his iphone, picking out something for the speakers across the room that Meyer paid too much for and never really uses on his own.  
  
Charlie sighs with all the force of a four-letter word, while Meyer glances meaningfully at the desk, even though he knows he used a fixative for those ones. "They get smudged, you're setting up tomorrow morning." In the chair, Benny pulls a face but doesn't protest. There's a gentle, heartfelt 'oh, _fuck_ ' from his left, so Meyer holds out his hand.  
  
It's Charlie's stuff, largely because neighbours or not he won't come by to wind down after-hours without bringing something. Meyer's worked that much out. Coffees, reciprocated after Meyer's thanks for the first meeting ("No, I- just _take the fucking flower_ -" and a sudden flush of red; a design incorporating both still taped to the wall at top left, close to the example blackwork, close to the memory of how Billie had grinned), then with time it was beers, a bottle of vodka, or occasionally this. And if not - he'll smile, exchange a few words but keep walking home. It's got meaning, much like it's got meaning that every now and again Charlie will turn up already a little unfocused even though Meyer knows they close up shop around the same time; like it's got meaning that despite Benny lounging there sleeveless and barefoot and even Meyer in shirtsleeves that Charlie will joke about the disaster of a tattoo he got at sixteen but won't wear anything that doesn't cover him to the wrist. It's got meaning, but it's only a draft at best, and Meyer's always patient with those.  
  
"Mey-"  
  
"Hmmm." He's laid the stuff down and rolls from the centre, at his own pace. They want it done right, they can fucking wait. He seals the paper with a lick, careful.  
  
Charlie's closer, but Benny's quicker and he ducks his head down, the joint between his lips while it still sits in Meyer's fingers. Meyer takes the brief opportunity for a closer glance at still-pink skin around new metal in his ear. Looks fine. He put it there, two days ago. Benny smirks and takes his lighter while he's looking. The piercings always fit, they work, but Meyer will freely admit he prefers when Benny wants ink. It never takes him long, feeling out the right shapes of it. Not for lack of care; hard edges are a given but the movement is something else, the near-shift, the need for it in line and colour. They're his favourite.  
  
The song changes, and Charlie tilts his head back and lights up, smile unguarded. Meyer wonders what he'd- then stops. Charlie's never asked.  
  
"I know this one." Charlie mimes the drumbeat while Benny returns to his chair, takes another hit and refuses to hand the joint over until he's named the track.    
  
It's all background noise to Meyer, and even so he considers that maybe he is very lucky, all in all. He knows Benny's not about to stop holding Charlie at arms length, not about to stop the baiting or laying unspoken claim to the space in every way he can when Charlie's here, but the thing is he doesn't think Charlie's going to stop pushing either. That's certainly something, too.  
  
"Really, old man?"  
  
"Fucking pass it over-"  
  
By the time it comes back around he's already rolling another, but he doesn't wave it away and continues rolling one handed. "Fuck you," Benny says, laughing, while Charlie's smile is a little more tentative.  
  
"Good at that, huh?"  
  
Meyer lights the newer joint, breathes out slowly. "I've had practice."  
  
Charlie bristles at the implication he hasn't, half-way to genuine, and Benny keeps laughing until the two of them are bickering again, snatching the prize back and forth with the flow of it.  
  
Meyer's amused enough to watch at first, but only at first, and when he says "hey" the reminder comes out a little sharper than he intended. Charlie is taking a drag at the time, long and showy, and the small sound he makes is so abjectly apologetic Meyer briefly thinks he's going to choke on it.  
  
He doesn't worry about that when Charlie's open mouth presses against his, although he thinks maybe Charlie hasn't entirely thought this through. They're sitting close, chairs adjacent at an angle, but he's leaning across enough to be precarious so Meyer has to steady him with a grip on his arm. He inhales evenly to match Charlie breathing out, keeping their mouths pressed just together while his chest tightens. He feels a little light-headed, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't done before. He doesn't breathe out until Charlie pulls away.  
  
"You hold too long," he informs Charlie a moment later, because Charlie still and wide-eyed and it's the most sensible of the various thoughts running through his head. "THC is absorbed within two to three seconds. Substantially speaking." He keeps his grip on Charlie's arm, to take the sting from the words. Taps his fingers, just enough to be felt, trying to match whatever it is that's playing in the background.  
  
"Right," Charlie says, slightly rushed. He ducks his head and leans away a bit, but not enough that Meyer has to let go of his arm. "Yeah."  
  
Across the room, Benny laughs too loud, brittle and bright. "Fucking nerd, see?" he says, directed at Charlie but gesturing at Meyer, up on his feet and rocking back on his heels. Then as abruptly as he got up he's half-turning and ignoring them, humming loudly and walking over to prod at a speaker to do, as far as Meyer can tell, nothing to it at all.  
  
Charlie settles back but his eyes track Benny, so Meyer lets his fingers continue to softly tap out a tune he's not altogether familiar with. But when he does cross the room, restless and sudden, it's Meyer he looms over and who he stares down at, intent.  
  
"I'm starving, yeah?" He sticks out his hand, palm up. He's had a copy of every key of Meyer's since he was twelve.  
  
Meyer takes his own from his pocket and hands them over.  
  
"My place," he says with a head-tilt upwards, once Benny has disappeared up the stairs tucked away at the back of the shop, because Charlie doesn't ask. Too small by most standards, even for one, and more nights than not Benny take possession of some piece of furniture or another, but Meyer likes the proximity. Likes the view. Likes how the stairs are frustratingly narrow, even, likes how sound carries badly. It's good for mornings. Good for now.  
  
"Oh." And then, after a moment. "Nice."  
  
It is, so Meyer nods.  
  
"I should- I gotta go," Charlie says. Meyer's fingers go still and he hums his assent; of course, yes, it's late.  
  
Neither move at all.  
  
It's quite a while until they do. Meyer holds the door open for him. He goes red, like the first day.  
  
Meyer takes the stairs after grabbing Benny's keys from his jacket and checking the locks twice. His bed is inviting but it's not the doorway he pauses in. There's smashed crockery scattered across the kitchen floor. Mostly plain white ceramic, and at first glance nothing he was particularly fond of; he stays where he is for a little while and watches Benny as he makes his way around the two saucepans he's got going, like the shift of tension in his shoulders might reveal whether that was by luck or design.  
  
"Ain't got a fucking decent thing to eat in the whole-" Benny loudly informs the wall in front of him, trailing off abruptly and then waving one hand in an all-encompassing gesture. He doesn't turn around. "Bull _shit_ \- dozen kinds of plate and fuck-all to put on 'em."  
  
He can't really disagree. Clean-up is a lost cause too, and tomorrow's problem, so Meyer lets the ceramic crunch under his heel and ignores it.  
  
"I can order-" he starts to offer, then leaves it open. From what he can see Benny hasn't done badly with fuck-all to work with, but he's no expert. There are take-out menus covering half the fridge, well-thumbed to say the least.  
  
Benny says nothing, and says it mulishly, continuing clattering lids and slamming a saucepan to the back-burner. So Meyer says nothing, too. Says nothing, just leans down to unlace his boots; because they're not the same size but it won't matter so long as Benny doesn't try to do them up, because Meyer is suddenly very tired, because there are shards of broken plate all over the floor and Benny isn't wearing shoes.  
  
Meyer leaves the kitchen more carefully than he came, not looking back to check. He doesn't have to. Anyway, whatever Benny is putting together, it smells good. He's looking forward to it.  
  



	3. don't think you will forgive you [blade runner au]

It's one of the bad days. Everything hurts and he gets the shakes twice before midday even though he takes the fucking pills on time and everything, so Tonino goes to bar and gets very, very drunk and invites a fight. His invitation is accepted.  
  
On his way to being hauled out into the alley he trips over something, which turns out to be someone, crouched down to hide from the cold. Barely more than a kid, looks like. "Get outta here," he says. "Gonna get mess-"  
  
In the second before he's shoved to the ground, the raggedy someone smiles at him, wide like a child. He laughs like a child too, when he knocks down the first guy. Maybe that's what throws the second and third guys off so much, 'cause pretty soon they're all down with a mouthful of blood.  
  
Tonino's pulled to his feet. Too tall, not a child, but not much more than either. Not-quite-kid. Tonino's head is fuzzy.  
  
"Hey," he says, and "Thanks, you're a pal." He sways a little. "You cold?"  
  
"Yeah," the kids says, but not like it matters to him any. "Got no place to go, though. My friend left."  
  
He's barely dressed enough for this weather when the sun's out; Tonino's not sure why he's not shaking. Tonino's jaw aches, but that's the worst of it. Three guys, and not more than a bruise.  
  
Ah, fuck.  
  
"Come on then, kid."  
  
Tonino takes him to eat first, somewhere shitty and neon-lit that's open this late. He figures it's the least he can do. The kid doesn't look starving, he's not skin and bone that's for sure and he's bright-eyed and all - god, Tonino is too drunk for this. Not starving, then, but he eats like he is. He slings his arm around Tonino's neck and points at every second thing on the menu, asking if it tastes good. He ends up ordering doubles of anything Tonino does and a couple of things Tonino can't pronounce, and flashes the waitresses this kinda half-smile that has them bringing out more for free. He says Tonino is his pal then laughs like that's the most hilarious thing anyone's ever said. He says his name is Benny.  
  
Tonino hasn't met anyone like Benny before.  
  
Tonino's never seen the point in separating his workspace from the rest of his rooms, though he knows it's not what most would call a proper lab. But Benny seems impressed anyway, and Tonino finally gets the power on properly after two tries. His current work-in-progress is bolted down on the table to the left and starts playing up immediately, sparking and unfinished. Benny seems fascinated, though, so he doesn't switch it off.  
  
Benny has to be pulled away from the equipment, but is happy enough to go dry up and put on something warmer, asks about a phone. He comes out after a while, Tonino's shirt layered over his own clothes, too-large. He perches on the edge of the nearest tabletop.  
  
"Better?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Just 'better'?"  
  
"Yeah," Tonino says, laughing. He's finally managed to claw a coffee from the machine, which is helping with his head. He's about to say something else, but Benny's eyes are suddenly fixed intently on the space behind Tonino, near the door.  
  
"My friend came back," he says, with satisfaction.  
  
The man at the doorway is small but not slight, leather jacket stretched across broad shoulders. Tonino's seen animals who walked a bit like he walks, smooth and all tight wound to the center. Or old holotapes of animals, anyway. That's not the point. He's present in the room in a way that makes sense, somehow, for Benny's friend.  
  
"Meyer? Meyer, this is my pal, the one I told you about."  
  
Meyer takes a step towards Tonino and holds his hand out, inclining his head politely. "Tonino Sandrelli," he says, like he's trying all the sounds out for size. Tonino shakes his hand and tries to remember when it was he told Benny that.  
  
The handshake seems to be enough for permission, because Meyer immediately ignores Tonino and goes over to Benny, still sitting on the tabletop. Benny grabs him as soon as he's in reach; hooks one leg around his waist and wraps both arms around his neck, all of which Meyer seems to accept with equanimity. Benny looks right at Tonino, resting his chin on Meyer's shoulder.  
  
"Tonino has some really great toys, Mey. He bought me dinner. I-"  
  
"Itst mir zenen bloyz tsvey fun aundz." That gets Benny's attention; he goes very still. Tonino has no idea what Meyer said but feels, somehow, like he's intruding. He'd leave, but it's his own damn workshop so that wouldn't sit right either.  
  
Benny tightens his grip on Meyer, fingers digging in. Looks painful. "Aun mir zenen narish aun vet shtarbn."  
  
"Neyn," Meyer shifts back and rests his forehead against Benny's, just for a moment. "Mir vet nit." He turns back, slowly, hand resting on Benny's lower back. "Thank you, Tonino. For your hospitality. Is something the matter?"  
  
Tonino knows, then. Hell, he already did, sort of. "You're so different." His throat is dry. "You're both so-" he waves his hand in their direction, not enough to encompass all of it but a start. "What generation are you?"  
  
"Nexus six," says Meyer, and Tonino grins because he knew it. He knew it. He's never seen one, not for real, not a whole one. There's some of him in them. In all the Nexus line. His work, right there making them stronger. Better. They'll last for four whole years, sometimes.    
  
"Show me something," he says.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Like anything."  
  
"We're not computers-" Meyer says, but Benny is already moving and Tonino's eyes are on him. He vaults over the handrails, the side of the stairs and dropping like he weighs nothing. Down among the equipment he stops next to a sanitation tank, steam hot enough to scald off skin. "-we're physical."  
  
Benny sticks his hand in and pulls out a glass tube, untroubled, then tosses it up to Tonino. Tonino can't help the delighted half-giggle when he feels the heat of it, even though it hurts and smashes to the ground immediately. "I think therefore I am," Benny says impishly, and grins.  
  
"You like being around him," Meyer observes from his side, and Tonino nearly jumps out of his fucking skin. He's light on his feet, that one. And somehow no less intimidating for the fact that he has to look up to meet Tonino's gaze, head tilted slightly. "That's alright. It is what he was designed for." He smiles, or something close. "And that is what you do, yes? Design."  
  
"Yeah. Well - genetic design. Not too much with the bio-mechanics, but-" Tonino stops short. They're incredible. He's never seen one for real. It occurs to him that he's not supposed to. "Helped make you, probably." He adds, because that's gotta mean something.  
  
"Yes," Meyer says. "You probably did."  
  
"Tonino's real smart," Benny interjects. "He makes all this shit, look at this-" He winks at Tonino. "We met another guy, but he only did eyes."  
  
Meyer smiles and says nothing. It's unsettling.  
  
"Not like you, huh? He couldn't help with our problems."  
  
"I ain't real important," Tonino finds himself saying. "Guys I work for. Some kinda types of genius, you know? Designed your brains."  
  
"Maybe they can help us."  
  
Tonino swallows. "I'll be happy to mention it to 'em."  
  
"I think," Meyer says, "It might be better if I talk to them myself."  
  
"I can't-" It's not like he ain't sympathetic. The bosses are hard to get to, he knows. Hardly even talk to each other without a fistfight, not anymore, thirty floors between them and all holed up in their penthouses. At war for a majority voting share. Only a few people with clearance, if they're useful enough in the labs, or harmless enough or both. Reliant enough on the corporation's subsidised meds.  
  
Benny gives an exaggerated sigh and reaches out to straighten the lapels of Tonino's coat. "C'mon, Tonino. Help us out. You're our best friend," he says, then grins lopsidedly. "You're our only friend."  
  
It's not like he ain't sympathetic, but it's more than his job's worth. He could get in real trouble, doing something like that. "I could get in real trouble, doing something like that," he tells them, just to make sure. Then he has to stare at the floor, because it sounds small and weak out loud.  
  
Benny freezes, closing and unclosing his fist, and then he's down the stairs two at a time over to the workspace, to the main tables. The malfunctioning prototype isn't moving as much now, slowed to an erratic twitch of wire and unformed flesh. Tonino looks up at the screeching of metal.  
  
"Benny-"  
  
"It doesn't want to _be here_ , Meyer," Benny snaps, like he's trying for angry, but he just sounds brittle and young. Under his fingers an iron bolt soldered to steel gives way. "It's not _happy_."  
  
When the shakes start in Tonino's left hand Meyer raises an arm without looking over, and Tonino grabs the offered wrist to help keep still before he even realises he's doing it. He's about to pull away when Meyer's other hand comes to rest lightly on top of his fingers. They keep trembling, and he can't make them stop.  
  
"We haven't got long left." Meyer says, low, without inflection. He's still watching Benny across the room. "You understand that, yes?"  
  
Meyer's voice is gentle. His hand over Tonino's is gentle. Things like him aren't supposed to be. It's almost reassuring, then, when Tonino looks down to meet his eyes, large and dark and nothing even close to gentle.  
  
"If he doesn't get help soon Benny will die."  It's not a question, but it's not an accusation either. Just a fact. "And we cannot allow that, you and I." That's not a question either.  
  
Tonino lets out the breath he's been holding. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."  
  


[Five hours later Charlie realises that this is it, he's lost his fucking mind and that's probably been true ever since this case started, because the uniformed cop blocking the inner penthouse door just wants to see his badge but Charlie's barely aware of what he's being asked; Charlie is frozen in place staring at the nondescript human body forensics are bagging further down the hall, like an afterthought, and all he can think is that the guy looks kinda peaceful. All he can think is that out of every replicant he ever retired, not one of them ever looked peaceful.]  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> film quotes in [internet translated, sorry] yiddish:  
>  _Itst mir zenen bloyz tsvey fun aundz: There’s only two of us now_  
>  _Aun mir zenen narish aun vet shtarbn: Then we’re stupid and we’ll die_  
>  _Neyn, mir vet nit: No, we won’t_


	4. gravity plays favourites, I know 'cause I saw [magical realism au]

 

It was never about this, things crawling on skin and tables shaking. It was just the cards. Not only unerring in their accuracy, that was just a part of it; they wanted to speak to him, and somehow despite how deep the truth cut he could make you want it too. For his part Meyer has no feel for the real thing, he wasn’t born like that. But if nothing else he will lay claim to having a truly talented eye for it. Something no one needed, tonight, to see the desperation on display. A great man reduced - or worse, reducing himself - to parlour tricks and trite posturing. Meyer is angry. Can barely breathe for it. Most of all he hates that, of everything that’s happened between them, it’s still this betrayal that bites sharpest.  
  
And all through had been that stranger’s voice, drunk and grating, while Meyer could do nothing but watch. A fool, no idea what he was really seeing, no idea how small he is in the face of it. A fool spitting out words that hit too close, words Meyer’s heard too many times. So instead of leaving through the alley he’d stopped, and waited, and closed his fingers around lead weight wrapped in leather.  
  
Now Meyer’s pulse is running quick, and feels he like he’s low-burning, he’s banked coals. Not alright, but better.  
  
He goes to Charlie’s place out of habit, because it’s late in the morning now and he knows it still bothers Charlie when he spends this long with AR. He lets himself in and calls out as he does. Charlie emerges cheerful and barely-woken, wrapping a fresh piece of linen around the marks cut into his left arm. Three days ago Meyer got his hands on an original edition of the book he’d been searching out for almost a year; he found new words to lay into the bones of their office, in doorframes and windowpanes and rafters, and Charlie had insisted he could do it all at once. Just on the right side of over-ambitious, that time.  
  
Charlie is smirking but whatever it is on his tongue dies out to silence, his expression changing as soon as he meets Meyer’s gaze. For all of Meyer’s exhaustion there is something in the way Charlie’s eyes go wide that sets him on guard immediately.  
  
He stays still, but Charlie doesn’t, crossing the room until they’re close and reaching out as if he means to grab at Meyer’s hands but can’t bring himself to make contact. “Mey,” he says quietly, fingers curling slightly in mid-air, a ghost of the movement that he wants to make.  
  
Meyer bites back on the obvious question but he’s worried, now, that he’s made a mistake. Even in the most mundane sense he knows he’s running warm with what happened, the memory and the sound of impact, and maybe that’s not fair to Charlie.  
  
“Got- on your hands-” Charlie says thickly, like he’s drunk. “Can’t you feel-”, he says, and then he sinks to his knees.  
  
Meyer doesn’t have anything on his hands. He’d been careful to get rid of all the blood back in the alley; then he had straightened his coat and put his hat back on, unassuming as he stepped back onto the main street, able to make way for the woman juggling shopping and two small children and receive nothing but a brief and harried nod of thanks before being forgotten. Except Charlie’s on his knees and his mouth is finding the exact spots Meyer had needed to wipe clean, and Meyer is suddenly out of his depth.  
  
“Charlie-” Meyer starts, and Charlie makes a small wounded sound and kisses the inside of Meyer’s wrist. He’s not all present, and there is a part of Meyer that wants to see what comes after this. It’s not that small a part. This fact is one of the few things that can wake him cold at 4am, alongside old dreams of tall flames.  
  
“Charlie,” he says again, louder but no harder. “Get up. Come here.” Even if it’s fingers tugging on hair this time instead of wrapped around the wrist of Charlie’s right hand - the one that always, always holds the knife - this is right, this is reeling him back to safe ground, this is what Meyer does. “Get up, _tesoro_.”  
  
Charlie does get up, then. He leans into Meyer and buries his face in the crook of Meyer’s neck, but he’s on his feet. Meyer resists the urge press a hand low against his back to keep him that way.  
  
“We can talk about it?” Meyer asks, eventually, and Charlie makes an indistinct sound, an answer in the negative.  
  
“'S okay,” he adds after a moment, voice a little clearer. “’S just you.” Meyer wants to say that’s no kind of answer at all, and he will. Later. Tomorrow, maybe. He puts his arm around Charlie’s waist instead, and says nothing. He’s out of his depth, like he always is with this. But maybe that’s the only reason it works, because Charlie always is too, and so long as that’s true Meyer is going to be right there with him.

  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [show me yours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750208) by [crimsonxflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers)




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